Canadian Bacon
by Sybil Olivier
Summary: That’s when the gray-haired limping bastard with the scruff noticed the love struck look on his friends face and realized he had been played by the brown-eyed puppy dog. Pizza and beer on a Friday night. With a slightly bored House, anything can happen.


_Disclaimer: The dictionary definition for own is: of, pertaining to, or belonging to oneself or itself. Clearly, that does not pertain to me.

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_ It was a luminous full-mooned Friday night that was so simple it made people who appreciated the simple things in life want to lie on the beach with the sand between their toes, and since that rarely happens among the population of the United States, it is safe to say these people who would lie on the beach at eight at night were either incredibly romantic or too high to even notice the tide pooling around them.

However, like the general populous, a girls basketball game full of sheer, sweaty, clingy material and sports bras was was the only luminous thing around. And to prove that point, in the small apartment, on the lumpy couch of James Wilson, with pizza and beer as the object of affection that could actually be man-handled was two sets of eyes _glued_ to the screen in front of them.

Without looking away from the t.v. House blindly reached for some more pizza. He was about ready to dig into his fifth, and last in the box, slice of pizza when Wilson hurriedly started talking about a rumor about a particularly sad case in the ER. House still didn't look away from this jogging girl pacing back and forth through the court like a snarling cougar, she reminded him of Cuddy and _God it was hot,_ but he had his ears perked up in the puzzle of a case. He listened as he absentmindedly slowly began to chew on the pizza. To be quite frank, House almost gagged the entire contents out of his stomach and back into his mouth by Wilson's second sentence. Apparently, blow jobs and seizures, in fact, did not mix.

"What the hell Wilson? I was happily trying to eat the last piece of pizza _without_ that mental picture in my mind," He took one look at the now what seemed to be a hearty bleeding mess of clean-cut meat and threw it back in the box, "you bitch."

"What can I say? I'm a man," you could see Wilson's Adam's apple bob up and down as he took a swig of his musty beer, "of little words." Wilson smirked in triumph and put his green bottle of Heineken on Frank Sinatra's face, the man had an OCD about rings on his wood tables. With both hands he (first ignored the bite marks left by House before he could seize it) picked up the fully loaded slice of beautiful plump yellow pineapples and intricately placed, crisped to perfection, Canadian bacon. The Cindy Crawford of pizza's was in his hand and it was as if the devil himself chose to leave his beautiful tropical climate just to whisper in the ear of a fat oily man, by the name of Joe, the secrets of such a sinful pizza.

And _he_ got House to throw it back.

That's when the gray-haired limping bastard with the scruff noticed the love struck look on his friends face and realized he had been played by the brown-eyed puppy dog with the salon quality ceramic hair dryer (which claimed to prevent split ends). House was impressed that Wilson got him, but revenge never really hurt anyone, so in a swoop he plot his own and acted.

Meanwhile, Wilson was completely oblivious to the tainted lycan-like territorial expression resided on Houses face. If possible House would grow hair by the cup-of-Cuddy's-ass-full in places Wilson would not only dream of but to the point of orgasmic suffocation. Just like Michael Jackson in that Thriller video, well excluding the orgasmic part.

But! House the wolf didn't bite, naturally that wasn't his style. Instead, while Wilson was admiring his golden gleaming Canadian bacon, House leaned in to attack his prey, saw his chance of crafty-thieving-of-one's-pleasure, and grabbed his cane. Before Wilson even had the _time_ to dig into his fourth slice, House tipped over his beer onto the delightful little rug adorning the living space.

Of course, the rush of flat amber liquid hitting the floor was just like a firing squad plunging a homemaker's instinct right between the nose, directly to the sensory part of the brain that illicit profanities out of the man known as James Wilson. "Damn you! I knew you'd want to condemn my rug and house-"

"Present!" House said as the lead-footed Oncologist could be heard walking away.

"-with the stench of stale beer." The last of his shrieking seemed less like an alarm clock going off in his head. And a glutton's beautiful, but worst nightmare was forgotten in the clutches of the homeowners mind because Wilson was already scrounging the hall closet and retrieved what he knew would be needed with House looming around his home with, symbolically, a spoonful of marinara sauce in his hand. House could hear his friend begin mumbling about new, just bought it, last week, expensive and rolled his eyes.

"Yeah I know, I was there with you for three hours, missing valuable 'me' time, while you were 'observing' the different textures between Egyptian cotton and chinchilla fibers with your stupid kaleidoscope." Wilson, now standing over the now seeping stain, ignored House's complaining rants and with cleaning product and towel in hand, rolled his eyes and scoffed at House's baby complaints. But he'd humor him just a little bit.

"Actually there's no such thing as chinchilla fiber rugs, but Egyptian-cotton on the other hand-"

"Yeah, yeah we all know you're feminine power of deductions-"

"Oh shut up and move your crippled ass so I can salvage my rug," Wilson said with the type of exasperation that was commonly found on six's year old rather than full grown men and then dropped to his knees. To much of his pleasure, House stiffened his posture and in mock hurt grabbed his thigh and put it high in the air (makes sure the yenta can see what he's forcing House to do) obliged and painfully scooted to the other side of the couch. The little charade was now over and House was was as thrilled as to the doors Wilson opened up for him.

Wilson's side. Wilson's side with another flat beer. Wilson side with the pizza he not only wanted to decolonize the Canadian off the bacon but part the Nile and drown the imaginary chariots with beer. If he couldn't enjoy the pizza, Wilson couldn't either.

So after a moment of unadulterated/borderline crazy laughter in the confines of the mind of Gregory House and one foul, swift movement later House accomplished his territorial wolf-like hungry feasting desire of a balanced world. And of course doing so in the most gentlemanly way.

First, he stood up. A usual tedious task but due to mixture of of two vicodin and a good guzzle of about two beer in the last hour, he wasn't obliged to the cripple rules. Second, he grabbed Wilson's not-so-chilled beer and took a swig to make sure it was dispensable. For it would pain every man who cherished the secret pact of beer if the beautiful amber liquid was indeed in range of being salvaged. And third, in the most honorable way a man can do without crying of what was about to be lost, House poured the beer over the pizza. As the last drops left the rim of the green glass bottle, House also dropped. Right on the couch.

Oh Wilson heard the sound of wet cardboard and for a split second even wished that a dazed homeless man on PCP snuck into his apartment with his cardboard home and decided peeing on it would be a good way of claiming it as his. Now the other side of his new carpet was going to be soiled. Damn it.

There was a short moment of Wilson looking like one of those little fat cartoons jumping up and down, as red as a blood red crayon, if ever one existed, and maybe would have caught on fire if he drank anymore alcohol. House was a cruel, cruel man. A cruel, cruel crippled man. A crippled, cruel bastard of a man. Wilson could easily see House in hell... maybe he was the devil.

House sat and smirked at his friend. Just a couple of seconds ago Wilson was gleefully content with life and now he seemed to be a hopeless babbling wreck. Probably had something to do with the fact that House 'accidentally' dropped something in his beer when he wasn't looking. Probably something that didn't mix well with the anti-depressants Wilson was taking. And probably was the reason Wilson was acting like a bug-eating rabid squirrel. House's smile faded a little bit when he thought _maybe _he put a little too much. _Maybe._

Wilson viciously scrubbed at the seeping stain, mumbling incoherently and having some neurons fire through his arms and legs jerked him around. A few minutes Wilson was on the other side of the table, faithfully scrubbing away the stain, and at his fast pace he was probably stripping the color of the rug to.

And then Wilson realized that House, indeed, had once again dosed him. He blabbed like the cackling hyena he was, throwing words around like "irresponsible", "appalling", and... something else. Eh, House wasn't paying much attention as to what the man was saying. He just stared at awe in the way Wilson could make his face look like that. Red, fluid-ee, his pupils all dilated, his face was twitching all over. Ok, so maybe he did put a little too much.

Then like a ray of heaven, or maybe it was just one of those Philadelphia cream cheese commercials, House was blinded by the beauty. The beauty of #17.

He would never forget why he loved woman's basketball. "Shh, # 17 is playing."

Wilson haphazardly looked behind him, no doubt almost falling on his ass. On the t.v. the toned basketball player was running down the court. Slam dunk. Jesus Christ. It was the most beautiful hook shot. And then the play was in slow motion, # 17 was running down the court, dribbling the ball... among other things. Now _that _was beautiful.

"Now I know why you like girl's basketball so much."

"No Wilson," House reclined back into the couch, "_that _is a woman."

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_A/N: Well, there you have it. R&R very much appreciated. _


End file.
